


Cuffs

by hello_imasalesman



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Double Penetration, Light Bondage, M/M, PWP, Threesomes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-12
Updated: 2016-02-12
Packaged: 2018-05-19 20:51:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5980609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hello_imasalesman/pseuds/hello_imasalesman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sole and Hancock string Danse up with a pair of handcuffs on the power armor craft frame.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cuffs

“I can’t believe you talked me into this,” Danse mutters, his voice taking on a strained edge at the finality of the handcuffs clicking closed. He immediately tests them, pulling the hands above his head forward; the chain clangs noisily around the top metal frame of the power armor station, but doesn’t give. Nobody had expected it to.

Hancock’s thinner fingers dance around his wrist, checking twice for tightness before he pulls back to survey the ex-Paladin. He’s just standing there, completely naked and just shy of having to stand on tiptoes- and my does he look good, his arms stretched above his head, muscles flexed. “What? Don’t put the blame on us.” Hancock chuckles, and on cue Sole is behind him, has to lean over to rest his chin against Hancock’s shoulder. “I believe someone was askin’ us about it…”

Danse feels color rise to his face, especially as he watches Sole settle behind Hancock, hips flush to his backside, hands cupping his waist. He presses his face to Hancock’s throat as he talks; to the ghoul's credit, he only tilts his throat back as kisses and nips are pressed to his flesh. “‘Oh, you gotta lot of handcuffs in the workbench, Sole. What are you using all of those handcuffs for, Sole. Bend over a little more when you’re hammering on that big gun of yours, Sole–’”

Hancock’s words end just a tinge high as Sole reaches down, palms his groin firm through the front of his low-slung pants. “Play nice, Hancock.”

“I was playin’ nice.” He groans. “'Bout to play a lot nicer….”

Danse clears his throat. He wants to say it doesn’t turn him on– God, that used to be a legitimate thing that came from his mouth, he even believed it. That the sight of Sole’s large hands stroking heavy over Hancock’s ruined skin, parting that ridiculous coat and frilled shirt to reveal mottled, irradiated flesh disgusted him. Didn’t make his toes curl and his cock twitch against his bare belly.

Hancock catches those little movements, his pupils slits. He’s sure they’re both high, though they pointedly never use around him. He pulls away from Sole’s grip, palms one of Danse’s pecs. He gasps involuntarily, jerking a little at the touch. Hancock’s fingers find a nipple, hard from the cool air, rolls the pad of his thumb against it. “See?” He pinches, pulls– Danse’s body arches towards his touch, whining. “Playin’ nice.”

Sole chuckles warmly, walking around Danse’s body. “Don’t tease him.”

Danse finds his eyes flitting elsewhere, trying to focus on something in his Spartan bedroom. He can’t focus on Hancock’s hooded eyes and his rough fingers jolting sensation through his nipples, the way his tongue darts out to wet his lips.

Danse is silent, squirming as Sole’s hands move unseen behind him, grabbing and spreading his ass cheeks. Sole makes an appreciative noise that, combined with Hancock’s fingers twisting as his nipples, puts such a red color on Danse’s face that he’s practically glowing in the dark.

Hancock chuckles. “He looks good?”

One of Sole’s hands leave his ass. There’s the sound of a zipper and a sigh of relief. “Fuck, Hancock. You wouldn’t believe how good he looks.”

Danse makes a strangled, shy noise, his hands twisting as Hancock leans in and flicks his tongue over the painfully hard nub, his other hand massaging his chest. “Mmn? Be my eyes, Sole.”

Sole laughs, shortly. “You know I’m no fuckin’ good at that– that’s your job.” He muses. Danse sucks in a sharp breath as Sole spreads his cheeks again, presses a spit-slicked thumb against his hole. “Fine. He looks– fuckin’ eager. Like he can’t wait for our cocks.”

Danse ducks his head low, groans as Sole pushes a finger in, nice and slow. There’s barely any resistance; he had prepared himself ahead of time in the garage, hunched over the very weapons bench Hancock had teased him about, just like they had asked. Hancock pulls away from his chest; he catches Danse’s eyes, his smile smug. “Yeah? Keep going.”

Danse can’t look away from Hancock’s dark eyes, the idle way his fingers are tracing patterns around his skin as he listens to Sole’s throaty voice, the low drawl that reminds him of the the Capital Wasteland. “Yeah, he’s gorgeous.” Hancock winks up at Danse, and the playful intimacy of it feels almost as raunchy as Sole’s moving, probing fingers. “He’s gonna look great spread on our cocks.”

Hancock stands fully, taking a step back. Sole is tall, taller than either of them, and so Hancock can take in Danse’s parted, wet lips and strung taught body and still get to appreciate Sole’s face. Sole’s face, peeking over his shoulder as he pulls his finger out and eagerly pulls his cock from his pants, the way Danse bites his lip and pushes back, just a little bit, as Sole lines the head up.

The chains of the handcuff clatter with their moans; Hancock exhales the breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding, palms himself through his pants. Danse’s calves flex as he pushes himself up on his tiptoes, trying to meet Sole as he eases himself into that tight heat. The slap of skin against skin is entrancing.

Hancock shucks his pants down just far enough to release his cock. Danse, open-mouthed panting, eyelids heavy; his eyes go downward and he groans, shudders, eases himself back against Sole’s hips as the Sole Survivor grabs his leg and eases it up, up.

“Room for one more?” Hancock has to ask as he presses up against Danse, his chest still mildly wet with Hancock’s saliva. Sole groans, bites back any disparagement towards sly, cheesy jokes in the firm tendons of Danse’s neck. “Man, but aren’t you two a sight for sore eyes–” his eyes go down, to the sight of Sole’s cock thrusting into Danse, again, and again– Sole grabs Danse a little firmer, pulls his leg up a little higher, and Danse whines.

Sole’s hips slow to an aching roll as Hancock presses himself up against Danse; it takes some maneuvering, and the power armor frame creaks as Danse shifts a majority of his weight to his wrists, the metal biting into his skin.

To Hancock, there’s never been a more inviting sight than Sole’s hands digging into Danse’s thighs to hold him up where the frame isn’t, his cock halfway sheathed in him. And Hancock voices that against the shell of Danse’s ear, voice low, like he’s soothing a skittish animal; beautiful, you look beautiful, as Hancock presses the head of his cock against Danse, red and dripping with lube, his cock rubbing snug against Sole’s shaft. He whines, lets his head drop back against Sole’s shoulder–

The three of them simultaneously seem to sigh as Hancock pushes past the initial resistance, eases in nice and slow. The workshop smells like sex and sweat. Sole is the first to move, readjusting his grip on Danse’s muscled thighs as he pushes his hips. And then Hancock is pressing his face to Danse’s chest, muffling the laughter bubbling up in his throat as he pushes up, up–

Caught between the two and his cock rubbing against the rough, textured skin of Hancock’s stomach, Danse sobs his release openly, grips his hands that have gone numb above his head. Their names blend together on his lips as they thrust, haphazard, erratically–

Hancock pulls out from Danse, curls his fingers against his waist and fists his cock until his cum is striping Danse’s stomach and chest. It takes Sole a few more thrusts. Hancock strokes Danse’s skin soothingly as Sole jackhammers into him, harsh panting against the shell of Danse’s ear.

There are a few, blissful moments of heavy breathing before the two men surrounding Danse spring into motion. Hancock pads away, his hips still swaying even with his pants sagging so low, grabbing a nearby rag. “Here, before it starts stinging–”

The handcuffs jangle together. “Actually,” Danse’s voice is hoarse, “Leave it. Please.”

Hancock swallows. Sole is reaching up behind him, quickly undoing the handcuffs. They click undone, and Danse’s knees momentarily buckle; Hancock braces his thin frame against him, his tone mild but insisting: “Hey. We need to clean you off. It will-”

“I know.” Danse murmurs. Ghoul come is mildly radioactive; sit long enough, it will leave burns, white scars in long streaks down the plain of his stomach. Hancock clears his throat, shakes his head, eyes a little wide. The Paladin very rarely forgets to surprise him when he can. Maybe he doesn’t realize that, rubbing his red wrists, with cum dripping down thighs dark with the marks of Sole’s fingers, he’s so achingly handsome Hancock could swallow him right up. “Leave it.”

Sole presses his lips to Danse’s cheek, pats Danse’s poor abused ass fondly. “Look at that. Earning your Stars and Stripes, soldier.”

Hancock groans at the pun, turns and laughs as the mood is lost. Danse just shakes his head, huffs out what could be mistaken as a laugh of his own.


End file.
